Scramble
by Rainey13
Summary: Tag to 3.16 Judgement Day - Neal and Peter make the hard decisions, and deal with the immediate fallout.  Yes, others have already posted on this topic - I had to take a deep breath for a couple of days just to absorb what had happened. This is my take.


**_A/N: Wow... that Season 3 finale left me shaking. It took a few days - and a few extra viewings - to even come up with a place to start. It's going to be a long wait for Season 4, so it's a good thing we have fanfic to tide us over. I haven't quite figured out how to "fix" things yet, but I sure hope Neal and Peter won't be separated for too long. (And I want to exact revenge on Kramer for tearing the bromance apart - but that's a different story!) This story only covers those first few crucial hours of Neal's run for_ _freedom._**

* * *

><p>It was a beautiful day in New York.<p>

Actually, Neal corrected himself, it was a _gorgeous_ day in New York. The fact that the sun was shining, and the temperature was _just right_ made it even better. But the true gorgeousness of the day had nothing to do with the weather.

He was done with his statement to the commutation board. And while it would, indeed, mean everything to wake up tomorrow morning without a tracking anklet, the first part of his final statement was equally true.

He was _happy_ with his life here. Happier, in fact, than he could remember being in a very long time. Oh, the two-mile leash might annoy him now and then – but it was something he could deal with for two more years, if necessary. And since he and Peter seemed to have reached an even tighter friendship bond – whether it was tossing a baseball in Yankee Stadium, or knowing that Peter had had his back when he tried to do the right thing with the Raphael the day before – maybe they could even work something out on the radius. An extension, perhaps, or one Saturday a month when he could have a radius-free day.

Definitely something he wouldn't have even been able to contemplate in DC with Kramer…

That thought made Neal shiver, and he struggled to push it out of mind. It was interfering with the gorgeous day.

The Art Crimes agent had been scheduled to make his statement to the board that morning. But if he had really been focused on the Raphael, there wasn't anything that could hurt Neal's chances. The statute of limitations had expired on the actual theft, and Peter and Sara had managed to come up with an ingenious way to solve any pesky possession of stolen property questions.

_Art authenticator. It was something he was good at. And if his sentence was commuted, there wouldn't be any reason he couldn't accept payment for his services. It might be something to talk to Sara about – a legitimate way to supplement his income…_

Thoughts about Kramer tried to force their way back to the forefront. Why would someone who professed to be Peter's friend act like that. Did the man _really_ believe Neal would hurt Peter? Well, maybe there had been an _incident_ or two that could have hurt Peter professionally somewhat, but he wouldn't make that kind of mistake again.

Why risk damaging the dream?

Well, Peter would probably still get annoyed at his ideas now and then… But what was a little annoyance among friends?

_Friends…_

Something he couldn't even conceive of with Kramer. Didn't the man understand that the success of Caffrey and Burke – or Burke and Caffrey, if Peter insisted – was because of the connection the two men shared? Even if they approached a problem from different angles, they always met back in the middle somewhere. _That_ was never going to happen the way Kramer talked about him, so forget a ninety-four percent conviction rate.

Still, if Peter had seemed the least bit worried about his career – and _if_ Kramer had been reasonable – Neal would have gone to DC. He could have handled that for two years, especially if it helped Peter – and with the promise of being able to come _home_ after that. But for Kramer to be digging through old cases, looking for misdeeds from the past… well, that just didn't seem right. Everyone _knew_ he'd been a thief, a forger, a con man.

_Allegedly._

The probation hearing was supposed to be looking at who he was _now._ He wasn't that person anymore.

And it really was much too gorgeous a day to spend any more time thinking about Kramer.

He probably could have just waited outside the hearing room while Peter testified. Peter probably would have waited with him afterward, while the board deliberated. But just _waiting_ had never been one of his best skills.

_Anyone who had ever been in the surveillance van with him through a long, boring night could attest to that…_

So, he walked. Not really going anywhere, and yet, in a way, going everywhere. At least in his mind. He'd promised to tell Peter everything. That scared him in a way – he'd never told anyone _everything_. And yet, there had almost been a feeling of relief when he'd said those words to Peter. Maybe it was the feeling of finally having a home, a family, that made him realize it was time to bring the past to light.

Seeing Ellen again… It was a door he really hadn't wanted to re-open. He wasn't sure how she'd feel about it – or how he'd feel himself. But once he got there, seeing her, feeling her arms around him…

It was good.

They'd even played their _truth_ game. How many times had they done that while he was growing up?

He turned the corner, catching sight of a clock outside the bank building across the street. If Peter's testimony had started on time, he might be just about done. Of course, the board had needed to reschedule Diana's testimony for today – she'd been a little busy rescuing him the day before – so they might be running a little late.

Still, time to head back that way.

And no matter the outcome, there was the little party at the Burke residence that night. Commutation cake or rum-soaked consolation cake – it was all good.

* * *

><p>The probation board had taken over an empty suite in one of the downtown buildings that housed a variety of government agencies. Maybe he'd just go up and see if Peter was done. If nothing else, there was a comfortable waiting area in the lobby…<p>

Neal stepped past the construction and stopped short. Peter was there, with Kramer…

And four armed marshals.

_That didn't look good…_

No, surely Kramer wasn't trying some new tactic. Some other way to tear Neal away from his home, his family…

He locked his eyes on Peter, the one constant in his life over these last two years.

Neal knew the exact moment when Peter saw him, the moment that their eyes met. Peter looked so sad, weary…

Peter shook his head.

It was the smallest of movements, but it spoke volumes.

_Kramer had played another card, and Peter's hand was empty._

It hit him like a ton of bricks but, as he had done all of his adult life, Neal adapted. The passersby became his shield, and he melted into the nearest group.

By the time he got around the corner, and out of sight of those on the steps, his mind was already racing. Still, he forced himself to keep his pace quick but measured. As he'd told Scott Rivers, it was best to blend in. If he'd been wearing track shorts and running shoes, he might have gotten away with sprinting; not so in a business suit.

With the traffic and construction surrounding the area, walking was quicker than a cab, so he stayed on foot. But as soon as he was sure he wasn't being followed, he pulled out his phone, pulling up a speed dial number. It was answered on the first ring.

"Scramble."

It was a code they had worked out years ago. The details of the response had varied somewhat over those years, but it only meant one thing – and fortunately, Mozzie didn't waste any time asking questions.

"_I can be at the airstrip in thirty minutes."_

"I'll meet you there."

Neal ended the call, pocketed his phone, and dodged across the street, ignoring the honking horns around him. Foot traffic had all but disappeared as he rounded the next corner, which was good.

It meant he could run.

* * *

><p>The ride up in the elevator seemed to take forever, and yet not nearly long enough. He needed to stall this as long as possible, without <em>appearing<em> to stall things.

He needed to buy Neal as much time as he could.

The doors opened and Peter took a deep breath before stepping out. For the moment the short hallway by the elevators was empty. That wouldn't last long, of course; Kramer and the marshals would be there soon.

_Kramer was probably pretty pissed that Peter hadn't held the first car for him…_

Somehow, that thought brought a smile to Peter's face.

_This wasn't the Philip Kramer he knew – not this bitter, vengeful man. What could have gone wrong? Could this really be about one CI who let him down?_

He caught sight of movement off to one side and looked up to find Diana walking toward him. She started to smile, but her expression quickly sobered when she caught sight of him.

"Peter?"

"He's going after Neal, Diana. Kramer's not going to stop."

"But the Raphael…"

"It's not about that, not anymore. He's going to use anything, to matter how small."

"And with Neal's record, it won't take much."

"No, it won't."

"What does Kramer want? Do you know now?"

Peter took a deep breath, blew it out slowly. "He wants Neal, tethered to him in DC. Permanently."

"That's what this was all about?"

"Yeah."

"But after everything Neal's been through, everything he's done. That's not right."

"No, it's not. But Kramer's here now, with marshals."

"He's going to arrest Neal when he shows up to hear the board's decision."

"That's his plan."

Diana's look clearly showed that she'd caught something in his voice, his words. "But?"

_God, he loved his team, his brilliant, brilliant team._ "Neal won't be coming," he said, his voice soft and a little unsteady.

A _ding_ from the bank of elevators made them both look that way. "Want me to run interference?" Diana asked.

Peter shook his head, pointing toward the hearing room. "No, don't risk it. You can wait on the balcony while I make my statement. And Diana, whatever happens in there, we never had this conversation."

* * *

><p>His hands were shaking when he got there, and it took a couple of extra tries to get the key in the lock. Sucking in a deep breath, Neal forced himself to concentrate. The shakes right now were mostly due to the run he'd just completed. But he couldn't afford to get sloppy now.<p>

He got the door open, took one more look around to make sure he wasn't followed, and that no one seemed to be watching the house. But everything looked calm, so he stepped inside.

Almost immediately he was greeted by the soft aroma of a fine Italian roast coffee; someone had just made a fresh brew. Beneath it was the scent of vanilla, the air freshener of choice in the Ellington house. He breathed in deeply, creating a memory.

So many memories here. That first day, the culture shock between the Empire Hotel (motel) and the "guest room" June offered him. The love he had felt from her, from that very first day on. He thought about the first time Mozzie had come, just after Neal had first been released. How could any of them have imagined the friendships that were being created?

He started toward the stairs, but in his mind he saw the first time he met Samantha. The girl was laughing, running down those steps, happily showing off her new soccer shoes.

He had to look away for a moment – but that brought his attention to the piano, and he remembered a night, not so very long ago. A dinner party; something that he had, yes, somewhat forced Peter into. But he saw June, so elegant and refined, standing by the piano, singing. Reaching out a hand, allowing him to join in with her, even if just a bit.

He remembered dancing with her, after Ford had run…

"Neal?"

He turned, trying to smile. "June."

Something in his face, his voice, obviously gave him away. "Neal, what is it?"

"It's Kramer."

Her jaw set, her look was hard. He'd told her just enough, apparently. "What does that man want from you?"

"He wants to take me away, maybe forever."

"You have to go, don't you."

Neal just nodded. They both understood that "go" didn't mean with Kramer.

"And Peter?"

Neal sucked in a deep breath before answering. "He knows."

"What do you need me to do?"

"I just have to grab a few things. Then I'll get a cab…"

"I'll call one for you."

Something about the calmness of June's response help Neal calm his own nerves. He brushed a quick kiss to the back of June's hand and then darted up the stairs.

* * *

><p>June watched her boarder – her friend – disappear up the stairs. Anger threatened to take over, but years of experience in some pretty gray areas let her hold the anger in check.<p>

There were things to do.

She picked up the phone, dialed the cab company, gave the address, and got a promise of five to six minutes.

Then she dialed another number, an attorney who specialized in _special_ cases…

* * *

><p>He hit the landing at a run, opened the door, and then leaned against it for a moment, collecting his thoughts. But it was just a moment, and then he was in motion again.<p>

It wasn't like he had never considered this scenario before…

_He just wished like hell he didn't have to be facing it now. Because now it wasn't just leaving a place, it was leaving a home._

His go-bag was just where he had stashed it, of course. The contents were innocuous enough so that he could explain it, if necessary, as being prepared for a case that might need an overnight stay. He didn't need much just to get away; everything else could be replaced when they got where they were going.

The passports might have taken a little more explaining. _DuPont, Moreau, Tabernackle, Chambers…_

The panel over the mantle had a few more things he added to the bag before his final stop in front of the bookcase. And his hands were actually shaking as he pulled out the small book.

The first print was the one Elizabeth had called the prom photo – he and Peter, shoulder to shoulder, in tuxes. There was another one with Peter, Elizabeth, and Satchmo – a lazy Sunday when he'd been invited for dinner and they'd taken Satch to the park afterward. June, as regal as ever, at one of the charity functions he'd escorted her to. And June, substantially more casual, with Samantha at a soccer game. The flash drive stuck in the back held many more memories that he'd just never printed out. He added the photo Ellen Parker had given him – the only one he had left from his childhood – and put the book in his bag.

It only took a few seconds to pry off the back of his laptop; Mozzie's lessons in paranoia – preparedness – came in handy. He pulled out the hard drive and stuffed it into his bag.

And then his fingers wrapped around the shears – the ones he and Mozzie had tested on so many things to confirm that, yes, the blades would cut through the reinforced band of the newest generation anklet, should that ever be necessary.

It was necessary.

And it was actually easier than he had thought – at least the physical cutting was easier. The emotional impact was something else…

But there would be time to deal with that later.

It was with a heavy heart that he slid the anklet onto the table, took one more look around, and then headed downstairs.

June was waiting, just before the door. He wasn't surprised, but it would have been easier if the way had been clear.

Then again, this wasn't supposed to be easy.

She met him as he stepped off the bottom stair, pressing something into his hand. "Take this. You'll know when to use it."

It was an envelope, non-descript, mysterious. He just nodded and slipped it into his pocket. "Thank you, June. For everything."

Her arms wrapped around him, pulling him close. "Oh, thank _you_, Neal. You brought life into this house again."

"Maybe a little trouble too," he whispered, returning the hug, memorizing the feeling.

"Only a little."

"June, they'll come. The FBI will come here, now that I've cut the anklet." _And his time was ticking…_

"I know. Is there anything for them to find? Anything I should find first?"

"Nothing more incriminating than a couple of lock pick sets." _He'd been careful about that, especially after the treasure came into play._

"My attorney is on his way. I'll be fine."

He hugged her even closer. "I wanted to take you dancing," he whispered.

"And perhaps you still will. This isn't over, Neal. I feel it. And your room will be waiting."

"June…"

The beeping of a horn interrupted them, reminding them that time was flying. With a sigh, Neal stepped back, letting his fingers linger on hers for an extra second.

Then he turned and walked out the door, not daring to look back. The cab was waiting and he got in, gave the address of the airfield, and then leaned back against the seat.

There was no sign yet of the marshals or Bureau agents. No sirens followed them as the cab moved off.

If Mozzie was on time, this might just work.

* * *

><p>He hadn't been to the airfield since the Lawrence case, but it looked much the same. Maybe a little greener at the edges since it was late summer now.<p>

The Twin Otter was out of the hangar, the fuel truck just pulling away. Neal could see Mozzie doing a pre-flight inspection as the cab pulled up to the gate. He dropped money for the fare and a tip over the seat, got out, and walked toward the tarmac.

The Otter had been seized after David Lawrence was arrested, and held for a few months while the evidence technicians had gone over every inch. But in the end it was agreed that the plane had no direct connection to Lawrence. In fact, it had recently been purchased by Island Air, a squeaky clean company that couldn't _quite_ be verified as legitimate – but there was no evidence of non-legitimacy either, so the plane was finally returned.

Mozzie had had a cleaning company come in to "disinfect" the craft. And, of course, he had swept it carefully for any bugs or tracking devices that might have been installed.

Neal ran quickly across the open area, waving as Mozzie came around the front.

"Do I want to know what happened?"

"I'll tell you," Neal promised. "After we're out of here."

Mozzie just nodded and climbed into the plane. Neal followed, closing the door behind him before following his friend to the cockpit.

Mozzie already had the headphones on, talking to the tower. Neal settled into the co-pilot seat, buckled in, and pulled on the second set of headphones. He'd never actually learned to fly himself, but this wasn't the first time he'd sat right seat. It had just been almost seven years since the last time.

The engines started, running rough for just a few moments before settling into a smooth roar. With deft movements, Mozzie released the brake, pushed the throttle forward, and they were on the move.

It wasn't a large airfield – no long lines of traffic to sit behind on the taxiway. They were airborne in just a few minutes.

Neal waited until Mozzie had completed all of his post-takeoff check-ins with the tower, and confirmed his heading before he spoke. "Where are we headed?"

Mozzie reached down alongside his seat, coming up with some documents that he handed over. "I filed a flight plan for Hartford – figured we needed to get away from the metro area."

"Yeah, there will be agents all over JFK, LaGuardia, Newark – probably even Teterboro."

"Our final destination is on the bottom of the first page, but we should make a couple of stops."

Neal looked at the information and smiled. "So I should book a couple of seats heading south."

"On the earliest flight possible," Mozzie agreed. "Use that top passport for me. We should change ID at some point. And there's a clean credit card in the envelope."

"Got it." Neal pulled out his cell phone – the new one he'd had on hand, not the one the FBI knew about. He'd yanked the battery out of that one in the cab. He pulled up a travel search site and searched for flights from Hartford to points south. _No regulations against using a cell phone on a private flight…_

It only took a few minutes to find what he was looking for. "Hartford to Miami, leaving in less than two hours."

"Excellent." Mozzie reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the dancing girl figure. "Do you think Lolana will need her own seat?"

"I think we can sneak her by without that." Neal concentrated on the tiny keyboard for a moment, typing in the passenger and payment information. "First class?"

"Definitely."

"All right, two tickets confirmed to Miami."

"Book the next leg, and then tell me what happened."

Neal turned his attention back to the search, typing in the next flight request. Hopefully this one would take a little more time…

_That way he could avoid the pain of talking about leaving New York for just a little while longer._

* * *

><p>He'd stalled as long as he reasonably could without <em>appearing<em> to stall. On the pretext of a case-related call, he'd encouraged the board to call a short recess and take a break.

_Neal would obviously have to go home first. He certainly hadn't been planning to leave._

The respite was brief, but it bought a few extra minutes at least. And knowing that Kramer was outside the hearing room doors, backed by armed marshals, had suddenly made this testimony into something he hadn't expected.

Telling Neal to go with that slight shake of his head might well have been the hardest decision he had ever made. And choosing his words for the commutation board would be the second hardest.

_The betrayal by Philip Kramer – his mentor, the man he had looked up to for so many years – might well be the hardest blow he'd ever taken. Even giving up his dream of a major league career hadn't hurt this much._

The board reconvened, and Peter took his seat in the witness chair. He stated his name, and his relationship to Neal. He talked about catching Neal for the second time, and realizing that the escaped prisoner had nothing, and no one. He talked about Neal's good heart. And then, the question that everything should have come down to.

"_Should Neal Caffrey's sentence be commuted?"_

If Neal had gotten his message – and there was no reason to believe otherwise – that question was already a moot point. But Peter answered it anyway, waxing eloquently about the necessity of letting Neal see himself without the anklet, without a constant physical reminder of his past.

He heard the door from the balcony opening even as he spoke, saw Diana coming in. And he knew what the message was going to be. But he had to finish his statement. "Yes. I'm saying Neal should be free."

And when Diana did, in fact, deliver the news he expected, he allowed himself the smallest of smiles.

He would have moved heaven and earth to keep Neal with him in New York. But he could not, in good conscience, turn his friend over to what Kramer wanted.

_Run, Neal. Run fast, run hard…_

* * *

><p>The Miami flight had been boarded right on time. And despite Neal's nervous observation of the boarding area, there had been no general alarm sounded. First Class passengers were called to the gate, and he forced himself to breathe normally as he joined the queue.<p>

Once on board, he shoved his bag into the overhead bin, slipped into his seat by the window, and fastened his seatbelt. Mozzie sat down next to him, and fortunately didn't feel the need to talk; Neal really wasn't up to a conversation just then.

He had told Mozzie what Kramer was attempting to do during their private flight to Hartford. And he had managed to talk Mozzie out of a rather convoluted revenge plan against the Art Crimes agent.

That wouldn't help their own journey, nor would it be good for Peter and the others left behind.

The flight attendant came by, and they both requested a glass of red wine before takeoff. If ever there was a time for something to take the edge off just a little, this was it.

It seemed to take forever to board all of the passengers. But maybe that was just because he half expected, at any moment, to see armed marshals come through the door to stop them.

Actually, just to stop _him_. There was nothing keeping Mozzie from traveling.

_He'd mentioned that on the flight to Connecticut, that maybe it would be better if they traveled separately. If there were agents coming to arrest him…_

Mozzie had simply scoffed at that, and reiterated his offer to bring hell's fury raining down on one Philip Kramer.

The boarding door finally closed, and no one had come to drag him out of his seat and off the plane. A few minutes later there was a slight lurch as the aircraft was pushed back away from the jetway.

He hadn't flown for over six years, of course, but no one else seemed to think that the wait time on the taxiway was unusually long, so he tried to relax. And it probably wasn't more than a few minutes before the plane turned onto the runway and he felt the powerful jet engines roar to full throttle.

And then they were airborne.

* * *

><p>Leaving Diana to explain to the confused commutation board members, Peter got up and walked calmly toward the exit.<p>

_Diana would understand, and be brilliant at the task._

In the waiting area, Kramer was just lowering his phone. Peter watched as a stunned expression crossed the older agent's face.

Barely breaking stride, Peter angled toward his former mentor – former friend. "I hope you're satisfied," he growled, the volume of his voice pitched just for Kramer's ears.

He was vaguely aware that Kramer was saying something behind him, but the man's words held no interest for him.

He had barely pressed the down button before the doors to one of the cars opened. Peter stepped inside, stabbing at the ground floor indicator. With a soft _whoosh_ the elevator car was closed off and moving.

And that's exactly what he needed to do – _move_.

There were things he needed to do. He should call Sara, make sure that their art authenticator story from the day before was solid. They didn't need any additional problems.

He also needed to tell her that Neal was gone.

He should also call June. If she had been home when Neal stopped there, she'd already know what was going on. And he knew she, of all people, would understand. And if she had not been home, she needed to be warned before a flock of agents descended on her home.

His car was just around the corner and he slid in behind the wheel, reaching across to the glove box. Underneath the driver's manual, the extra riot cuffs, and the _Official FBI Business_ placard for when parking was an issue, he found what he was looking for.

_Thank you, Neal, for suggesting the burner phone._

And, of course, he needed to call El. He had no idea what he was going to say to her.

_Maybe there was still some of that rum left over from the cake…_

* * *

><p>The plane banked gently, setting them on a nearly due-south course. From his window seat on the right side of the craft, Neal could feel the afternoon sun passing across his face for a moment before they entered clouds again.<p>

It was almost funny – he'd dreamed of this for over six years. Being able to get on a plane, fly away, soar beyond the confines of Manhattan.

He just never imagined it would be like this.

It was almost funny. He'd started the whole arrangement with Peter with the goal of slipping away to find Kate at his earliest opportunity – as soon as he and Mozzie could solve the riddle of the anklet. Oh, he could have cut the anklet and run at any time – as he was in the process of proving – but he'd always figured it would be better to leave with as little fanfare as possible.

To leave with as much lead time as possible.

But somewhere along the way, things changed. He started _caring_ – about Peter, Elizabeth, June, Lauren, Jones, Diana. He cared about Blake and Westley and most of the other agents he'd worked with. He started caring about the _victims_ of the crimes they investigated. And Sara…

He'd let way too many people into his life. A con man should know better.

_You can be a con or a man. You can't be both…_

Maybe he'd heard Peter's words better than he'd thought. A _man_ had people in his life, people he could count on, people who could count on him.

He looked up as Mozzie came back to his seat, setting Lolana on the tray between them. Fortunately, in a true display of friendship, Mozzie seemed to understand that Neal needed some time with his thoughts, and he didn't try to talk.

_Freedom…_

He'd longed for it, hungered for it. And yet his words to Peter, and the commutation board, had been the truth. Anklet or no, he had been ready to show up on the twenty-first floor come Monday morning.

But that dream had come to a crashing close, and he needed to move on. That meant focusing on what they were doing now – on the flight for freedom. Dwelling too long on the past could make him sloppy, and cut his future depressingly short. One thing he did understand was that when you ran, it took all of the attention and energy you could give it.

There would be time to reflect on the past, but it wasn't now.

_He just wished he knew that Peter would be all right, that Kramer wouldn't go after him for Neal's flight…_

They passed through some clouds, and the sun was there again, caressing him, and he turned his thoughts to the immediate future. Victor Moreau and Robert Lynde would travel on from Miami later tonight. By morning they would be ensconced in an isolated villa outside of George Town on Grand Cayman. A few days to take stock, set up some financial matters, and just generally take a breath, and then they'd move on.

To where, he wasn't quite sure yet. The world was at their feet.

_Except for the one place he really wanted to be…_

He rested back against the seat, allowing himself to feel the sun washing over him. It had been quite a rollercoaster of emotion over the last few days. It would be good to take some time, think things through.

For now, he was free. Free from whatever Kramer's twisted plan had been for him. Free to answer only to himself.

Free to take some time and figure out how to get back what had been ripped from him. Because one thing he'd learned over the years was that very little was beyond his reach when he put his mind to it.

That thought brought a small smile to his face as the sun washed fully over him. And he took that as a good sign that someday there would, indeed, be a way to go home.


End file.
